Page 97 of Never Dare a Duke
At last she had assembled all of her research, and she began to write. She wrote about Christopher’s mistakes as a boy, but she mostly wrote about the man he’d become, his crusades against child labor in Parliament, his friendship and support of the man he’d injured, and Mr. Preston’s slow, but miraculous, recovery. When the article was published, the printing presses could barely keep up with the demand.
Abigail felt as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from her. She’d done her part and could only pray that the newspaper’s circulation stayed high when readers saw all that theMorning Journaloffered.
And certainly she must have helped Christopher. She prayed he thought so, that he would look back on their time together with fondness…someday.
“Mr. Shaw, come quick!”
Lawrence Shaw looked up from the account book on his desk as the editor’s assistant gaped at him in the doorway. It was late in the afternoon, and the newspaper office was just beginning to hum with the energy of the coming evening’s work to put the paper to bed.
“What is it?” Shaw demanded absently. He was busy estimating the effects of Abigail’s article on his circulation numbers after only three days, and the increase in advertisements. It was looking promising thus far, and his cautious relief overwhelmed him. He was so proud of her.
“There’s a carriage near the front door, with a huge coat of arms on the side. There are at least four footmen!”
Frowning, Shaw left his office and emerged into the editorial room, where newspapers were stacked on desks and even on the floor, as the assistants searched through them for story ideas. But everyone in the office was crowded at the windows. They made room for Shaw as he approached, and he watched the porter below speaking to a footman.
Shaw recognized the coat of arms and took a deep breath. Before he could think how best to handle the confrontation, someone cried, “It’s the duke of Madingley!”
Several young men gasped with astonishment, but Shaw could only wonder if an enraged duke would create havoc in their offices. But no, if a duke wished it, the damage to his newspaper would be much slower—and more complete—than that. Yet he’d never heard the duke called unfair, and Abigail obviously admired him. Too much. He hoped she would not be disappointed by whatever happened today. Bracing himself to manage the duke’s displeasure, he waited with everyone else while the man himself ascended to the third floor.
When the duke entered the room, followed by a footman, he swept off his hat, revealing the dark Spanish heritage he was known for.
But he did not look angry, only raised an eyebrow as he saw everyone staring at him. “I am looking for Mr. Shaw.”
Without a word, a path cleared between the two men. Madingley passed through, and when his mouth quirked with amusement, Shaw found himself beginning to relax.
“Your Grace, I am Mr. Shaw,” he said, bowing slightly.
Madingley gave a formal nod. “Mr. Shaw, might we speak in private?”
Shaw gestured to his office, allowing the man to precede him. Shaw had already cleared a chair for him, and the duke sat down once Shaw was behind his desk.
“Would you be here to discuss the article, Your Grace?”
“Only indirectly, sir. I am here to talk about your daughter.”
Stiffening, Shaw said, “I did not know that she was planning to stay at your home under false circumstances. I do not approve.” He hesitated, then admitted, “I didn’t even know she was writing for my paper. It would seem that I did not know how to keep control of her actions.”
The duke smiled faintly. “I do not believe that is possible.”
Shaw blinked. “Oh. Then—”
“But I have a suggestion for how it might be managed in the future.”
Abigail sat in the drawing room, writing by the light of a lamp, while her mother sewed nearby. It had been five days since her article was published to great acclaim. Yesterday, for the first time, the managing editor had given her a story to cover about a charity event hosted by the Institute of Popular Science and Literature. It was not a front-page story, but it was a start—especially for a female journalist who would have to continue convincing the public of her abilities.
She told herself that she should be happy. Hadn’t this always been her dream? Her father was proud of her, wanted her to work for him. She’d helped save his newspaper. And he hadn’t brought a different man to every meal this week.
Perhaps happiness would come as she learned to forget what had happened to her. But she’d been changed. Loving Christopher had made her feel like a different person. It had helped her understand her parents, had helped bring her personal dreams to life.
But at last she’d realized that without Christopher to share in her success, it was somehow less satisfying. She forced herself to return to her work, before her useless tears started again.
The front door closed, followed by the sound of footsteps up the stairs.
“Abigail?”
She turned about in her chair in time to see her father enter the drawing room. He was carrying a newspaper, and although he smiled a greeting at his wife, he moved with purpose toward his daughter and set the paper on the table before her.
“This is tomorrow’s paper, the first off the presses. I would like you to approve the front page.”
